


Almost Lover

by indigo_carter



Series: Supernatural Hurt/Comfort [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Heart Break, Hurt/Comfort, omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_carter/pseuds/indigo_carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Imagine breaking up with Dean and having nowhere to go.</p><p>Character: Dean</p><p>Author: Frankie (spnsmutscribe)</p><p>Reader Gender: Female</p><p>Word Count: 2,000 (ish)</p><p>Warnings: Extreme sadness, if that counts?</p><p>A/N: Aw, crap. I made myself cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Imagine breaking up with Dean and having nowhere to go.
> 
> Character: Dean
> 
> Author: Frankie (spnsmutscribe)
> 
> Reader Gender: Female
> 
> Word Count: 2,000 (ish)
> 
> Warnings: Extreme sadness, if that counts?
> 
> A/N: Aw, crap. I made myself cry.

You stood outside the bunker’s front door, suitcases at your feet and tears flooding down your cheeks. You hardly knew what had led to this moment: to you being stranded, abandoned, alone. Alone and with nowhere to go. Your heart was leaden in your stomach, your knees jelly, and you stood, just stood and waited for something to happen. Despair swept over you in waves, and a lump formed in your throat, fresh tears burning the backs of your eyes.

_“Let’s go for a drive.”_

“Dean! It’s nearly midnight!”

“We’re in Vegas, baby. Let’s go for a ride down the Strip.”

“Fine, just let me find a jacket.”

That was where it had begun, you thought. Your quasi-relationship with Dean. You’d gone out that night, just the two of you, roaring down the Las Vegas Strip, the windows open, music blaring. You’d returned to the motel and fucked in near-silence in the bed next to Sam’s, and you’d never really looked back. When you went home to the bunker, you still had your own room, but you spent most nights in Dean’s. You did pretty much everything together, but you never defined anything.

_Months passed. You spent days hunting and researching with him, and nights in his bed. He was careful, considerate, compassionate – a truly exceptional lover. In waking dreams, you fantasised about spending the rest of your life with him, but always knew in the back of your mind that it was unlikely. Dean wasn’t the settling kind._

The pain of knowing that had nearly killed you, and the pain in your chest redoubled. Sometimes, it had seemed as if he really did care about you. Sometimes, it had felt like he was going to settle down with you, maybe get married, maybe, possibly, raise a family together. You knew it was a pipe dream – the only way Dean Winchester would ever have children was if he left the life, and he wouldn’t do that until every evil thing in the world was gone. Like he was now.

_Palm trees were swaying on the beachfront, and Dean took you in his arms, dancing to music only he could hear. You let him guide you, following his lead, pressing as close to him as you could get. For a moment you let the confusion go. He was here with you. If he wanted to be anywhere else he would be. Abruptly, he let go of you, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and led you back to the car. You didn’t have sex that night._

Was that the night things started falling apart? You had to ask yourself. You’d been so happy until that point, never succumbing to the questions which leapt to mind. It was as if the instant you let yourself begin to question, he backed off. A chilly breeze whipped up, and you shivered pitifully, wrapping your arms around yourself. Of course, that only brought back more memories.

_The second winter you lived with the Winchesters, there was a hunt in some mountain range or another. It was cold. So fucking cold. And without any other shelter, you’d made do with a two-man tent between the three of you. Dean had shared your sleeping bag, but he refused to touch you. You’d woken in the morning to find he’d wrapped himself around you in his sleep, but the moment he awoke he pulled away again. You couldn’t understand it, and had given up analysing him. A constant ache lodged in your chest, and Sam had begun to notice your distraction._

How had things gone so wrong? You sank down to crouch among your belongings, your arms wrapped around your knees. You’d started to fall in love with him, and occasionally it felt like he was falling for you, when suddenly he started pushing you away. The pain was overwhelming, and you curled down tighter into your ball of desolation. Moans and sobs wrenched from your throat, and you stifled them with a fist pressed to your mouth.

_“I can’t do this anymore, Y/N. I can’t have you hanging around with that FUCKING expression on your goddamned face. This wasn’t ever anything. I don’t give a shit. Just get out of my face with your fucking hurt looks and your fucking fake concern and your FUCKING neediness.” He’d finally lost it. He’d become furious over nothing, flown off the handle, and directed it at you. As he screamed at you, something inside snapped. You were going. You were going, and you were never coming back._

The door behind you clicked open, and you choked on a sob. Sam stepped out and gazed at you, his mouth falling open into a small ‘o’ of surprise.

“Y/N? What are you doing?”

“W-what does it look like?” You were so miserable that you barely had the energy to talk, your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth, your heart too full of pain to let your lungs work. He knelt beside you in your fog of pain and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Is it Dean?” At the mention of his name, your mouth opened on a silent cry, and more tears spilled. “Shit, Y/N. I’m so sorry.” Sam’s sympathy didn’t really help. Tears followed tears followed tears, and suddenly you realised he’d wrapped you entirely in his arms and you were sobbing into his chest. “Did he ever tell you?” His whispered question made you hiccup, and you peered at him through puffy eyes, the question plain on your face. “Crap. He never told you?”

“Told me what, Sam?” Your throat was sore and your voice croaky from the violence of your sobs.

“About the Mark?”

“Mark?”

“The Mark on his forearm?”

“What Mark?” Sam’s eyes closed and he sighed. You prodded him, your tears slowing. “What Mark, Sam?!”

“The Mark of Cain.” Your eyes widened. You’d heard of it, carried out research on it for Dean, but you’d never…

“Why didn’t he tell me?” It came out as a whisper as more tears overwhelmed you. “Why didn’t he trust me enough to tell me?”

“As crap as it sounds, it wasn’t his fault. He hasn’t been entirely…Dean for a few months.”

“Well, no, he was a demon for a while.”

“Y/N, it’s more than that. It was before that.” Sam’s voice was gentle. “He’s not in control of himself, doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time. He’s a ball of rage and hate and fear and pain, and he doesn’t know how to cope. But I do know he needs you.”

“He pushed me away! He didn’t want me near him!”

“He didn’t want you to see him like that!”

“Oh, so he thought he’d break my heart instead, did he?” Sam’s retort never came. In the face of your pain, words escaped him.

“I don’t think he wanted to hurt you, Y/N, and I really don’t think he wanted you to leave.”

“He told me to go.” Your head dropped down, and you felt your knees liquefy as you repeated your sentence under your breath. “He told me to go.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, come inside. Please. We’ll sort things out.”

“I’m not sure this can be fixed, Sam.”

“Well, we can get you warmer, at least.” Sam scooped up your bags with ease, and ushered you back into the bunker. Dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs, and you balked.

“Sammy, I can’t go back in.”

“Don’t be silly, Y/N.” A firmness entered his voice. “You’re half frozen and we need to sort things out. Even if you leave, you can’t leave like this.” You’d kept half an eye trained on Dean as Sam spoke, and you saw his reaction when Sam said the words…if you leave. It felt like they echoed around the bunker, louder and louder until they were the only thing you could hear.

In a matter of minutes, you were back in your room, your belongings still in bags. You were heaping pain on pain by listening to a song which always made you cry – a cover of Almost Lover, which somehow seemed to tug at your heartstrings even when you were perfectly happy.

I never want to see you unhappy  
I thought you’d want the same for me

Goodbye, my almost lover  
Goodbye, my hopeless dream  
I’m trying not to think about you  
Can’t you just let me be?  
So long, my luckless romance  
My back is turned on you  
I should’ve known you’d bring me heartache  
Almost lovers always do

The notes floated out of your room and seemed to fill the bunker with your pain. Sam and Dean were in the library, Dean pacing like a caged lion, Sam perched on the edge of a table.

“Dean, what the fuck did you do?”

“I…lost it. Lost control. Couldn’t stand the fucking hang-dog expressions that always seem to come my way, so I yelled. Couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control what I was saying. Sam, I was…I’ve never been like that. Ever.”

“How do you feel about Y/N?”

“I don’t know, man. Sometimes I thought I loved her…and then I’d lose myself a little bit and everything about her annoyed me, and then she’d do something that’d pull me back to being me again and I _knew_ I loved her then…I don’t know. How I feel varies. It’s like this fucking Mark’s on a slider and depending on how high the volume is…what have I done?”

“You’ve fucked up. Do you want her here? She knows now, you can be honest with her.”

“I want her to stay.” It was whispered, and even Sam barely heard him.

“Then you have to go tell her that.”

You lay on your bed, curled up with your back to the door, the bed sheets pulled hurriedly from a suitcase which now sat spilling its contents onto the floor. A few gentle taps on your door gave you a moment’s notice, and then Dean was in your room. A yawning chasm of pain opened up in your chest, and you wished the bedclothes were thick enough to protect you from him.

“Y/N?” You cleared your throat.

“Go away, Dean.”

“Y/N, let me talk to you, please.” He sounded almost as hurt as you, so you wriggled a little in the mess of duvet and pillows until there was enough room for him to wedge onto the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I lost it.” You made a squawk of indignation was that really all he had to say on the matter? “I know that sorry doesn’t cover it. It doesn’t cover how I feel, either.” Huffing slightly, you half-turned to catch a glimpse of him. He was sat on the bed, one leg resting on the floor, the other stretched out on the bed, his arms folded firmly across his chest, and his eyes fixed on the photos you’d left on your bulletin board. In that moment, you knew how much he was hurting. Your own pain was reflected in his eyes, as he realised the only thing you’d tried to leave behind was him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you about what was going on with me.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you why we were researching the Mark. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. You deserve better than that.”

“I can forgive most of that, Dean.” You barely muttered it, unable to raise your voice any higher. You felt him shift to hear you better. “I can forgive the…actually, I’m not sure I can. You didn’t trust me. You fucked me, and you let me think you cared, but you didn’t trust me with the one thing I should have known. And then you…”

“I know.”

“I loved you, Dean.” The past tense slipped past your lips, and you recoiled from it. Was it really past tense? You felt Dean flinch. “I think I still love you. I think a part of me always will. But you didn’t trust me. And then you threw everything in my face. I don’t know if I can get past that.” His hand tentatively touched your shoulder.

“Can you try?” His voice was gruff, a muffled whisper.

“I won’t make any promises…”

“Will you try?” He repeated it, louder, an edge of tears to his voice.

“Yes.” You whispered back. “I’ll try.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: My computer’s being a being a bit of a pain, but I was wondering if you were planning on doing a part two to “Almost Lover”? Much love and adoration! ^_^ And fyi, I’m crying. Oh, the feels. Idk whether to be happy or sad on that point. I think both would suffice. My heart lays before you. Pieces…broken…maybe forgiveness? (shriquinn)
> 
> Character: Dean
> 
> Author: Frankie (seducing-winchesters, formerly spnsmutscribe)
> 
> Reader Gender: Female
> 
> Word Count: 700
> 
> Warnings: None.
> 
> A/N: I’m so sorry this has taken so long! I’m briefly resorting to uploading from my partner’s workshop so I can get a head-start on uploading before my internet at home is connected (10 days people!)
> 
> I wanted to give this a little closure. Sometimes too much sadness is hard to bear!

_“I loved you, Dean.” The past tense slipped past your lips, and you recoiled from it. Was it really past tense? You felt Dean flinch. “I think I still love you. I think a part of me always will. But you didn’t trust me. And then you threw everything in my face. I don’t know if I can get past that.” His hand tentatively touched your shoulder._

_"Can you try?” His voice was gruff, a muffled whisper._

_“I won’t make any promises…”_

_“Will you try?” He repeated it, louder, an edge of tears to his voice._

_“Yes.” You whispered back. “I’ll try.”_

Months had passed since you made that promise. Months of working as a team to find a way to get rid of the Mark, months spent trying to find your fit in their lives again. You began to realise that although Dean had messed up, your scuppered attempt to leave had caused more damage than anything else. Things had eventually eased. You’d fallen back into the swing of life in the bunker, even if that life contained significantly less Dean than it had previously. He was there, in the background, and your stupid heightened awareness of him told you when he so much as cleared his throat before turning a page, or snorted at some ridiculous joke in a sitcom. Eventually, when things started to clear and Dean began finding coping mechanisms, he started to try to get closer to you. Initially, his clumsy attempts just reminded you of what you’d lost, but then Sam took you to one side and explained that Dean had – for the most part – lost everything which made him who he was. Everything, that is, except the parts which responded to you.

“Y/N, something in him is pulling him back to you. He really needs you, and he needs all the love you can spare.”

“Love?” “I reckon that’s the only thing the Mark can’t touch. Even when he turned on me…” Sam paused and you both considered the day Dean had rampaged through the bunker looking for Sam, “even then, I’m still not convinced he would have managed to actually kill me. Hurt me, sure, but I think killing me was beyond him, even at his worst.”

“So…you think I should let him back in?”

“Not…not if you don’t want to. But even I can see the amount of pain it causes him when you pull away from him.”

“He shouldn’t have told me to leave.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to him.” You had no answer to that, so you turned your back and walked away, scooping up your current novel and plonking yourself on the end of one of the sofas. You didn’t need to see Sam to know he shook his head sadly before walking away. You were engrossed in a complicated bit of narrative when Dean sat down at the far end of the sofa.

“You mind?” He waved the TV remote at you and you shook your head, smiling. Twisting in your space, you rested your back against the arm of the sofa and pulled your feet underneath you, delving back into the story. Dean’s very presence distracted you, to the point that you put your book in your lap and gazed at his profile. A sadness for what you’d lost welled up in you and, as though he could sense it, he turned to look at you, a frown on his face. “Y/N?”

“Come a bit closer?” You found your voice was clogged up, and cleared your throat. He quirked an eyebrow at you, but moved until he was sitting next to you.

“Better?” You nodded and resumed your book, prickling awareness of him flooding through you, from the heat receptors in your shins picking up his body heat, to your nose where the unique Dean smell was overriding everything else. The pair of you sat that way for a while, each studiously pretending to not be aware of the other, until you heaved an enormous sigh and pulled your feet away from him. Before he could complain, you rotated until your back was against his arm, tucked your feet up again, and rested your weight on him. You heard him exhale a slight laugh before he extricated his arm and wrapped it over you, your head on his shoulder, your shoulder under his arm and his hand wrapped around your waist.

That was how Sam found you three hours later. You’d finished your book and were now dozing on Dean’s shoulder. Dean was watching some half-brained action movie and absent-mindedly stroking your hand where it rested on his knee. Sam sat in the chair next to you, and you peered at him. Contentment rested heavy on your chest and you sighed, tangling your fingers with Dean’s.

 _Maybe,_ you thought, _maybe things will turn out ok, after all._


End file.
